A mother wishes that she could convince time to stop -for just a moment.
So she could hold onto your tiny hand a little bit longer or look over her shoulder, only to see your small footprints disappear under a thin, foamy wave.
She wishes she could remember what your sweet voice sounds like, as you pronounce the word “strawberry” or mix up “aminal” for “animal”.
She wishes that she could be sitting once again during your very first school concert. She remembers your eyes light up as you proudly sing your songs and move your hands to a jingle bell.
“If only time would stop.” she thinks, for just one moment, so she could bend down to give you a kiss on your freshly scraped knee, and then pick you up and cuddle you until you feel better.
A mother’s wish is always simple; she wishes she could hold onto every specific moment that enhances her world, makes her smile or shed a tear.
But she knows that’s not possible and that one day the clothes will get bigger, the hand will eventually let go and the footprints do get larger. The concerts get grander and the words turn into essays or texts.
She knows that time can never stay still, not even for a moment. But she is content in knowing that every tiny smile, cry or burst of laughter is imbedded in her memory of time, to call upon whenever her heartstrings tug.
Words by Ann Ivy Male